


Cages of the Mind

by Espernyan



Series: Ophelia's Yet Unnamed Bloodborne Series [4]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Iosefka PoV, It's not as bad as the tags make it sound, Just Trying To Help, Lesbian Character, Making Love, Maria POV, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Reunions, Self-Hatred, Temporary Amnesia, Wholesome Character Interactions, supportive girlfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-11-26 03:36:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18175334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espernyan/pseuds/Espernyan
Summary: Ophelia makes for the Nightmare of Mensis, but, even before that, complications arise.She's a strong girl, really, but how can the people she cares about help her if she fails to let them?But alas, not too fast! The Nightmare swirls and churns unending.A sequel to Through the Nightmare.(I'll update the tags as I go! And I might change the title, I'm awful bad with titles.)





	1. A New Old Flame

**Author's Note:**

> A short opening scene~!

Iosefka awoke to the smell of incense, the excited voice of a little girl, and the feeling of a hard cot beneath her. Eyes fluttering open, she peered into the semidarkness of the Chapel’s arching roof and noted that it was rather higher than the ceilings in her clinic. A blanket was draped over her; she rolled over and looked in the direction of the voice.

Her vision, she realized, was somewhat bleary with sleep.

“Lovely world we’ve destroyed, isn’t it?” Said a woman’s voice. An outsider, by her accent, not that Iosefka much cared.

“It is,” Iosefka agreed, and a wave of exhaustion hit her. “I- I realize I’ve just woken up, but I’m afraid I am rather tired. If nobody needs my assistance, I’d like to... rest my eyes.”

“Everyone’s fine, here,” the woman said amicably, “get yourself some rest.”

The woman speaking was a blurry, dark shape – was she, perhaps, a Hunter? A bit of hope bubbled up in the Doctor’s chest.

“Thank you.” Iosefka said gratefully. “And, I’m not certain there’s a proper way to ask this, but… might you know of a Hunter called Ophelia?”

A chuckle emanated from the dark shape. “I may have taught her a thing or two.”

Realization sparked in Iosefka’s mind, and she half-said, half-asked, “Then- you must be the Crow, Eileen, yes?”

“I am, yes,” mewled Eileen. Iosefka detected a bemusement in her voice, now that she’d heard it a few times – small wonder that Ophelia liked the woman so much. It was always there, either in undertone or more prominent, but it was charming, charming and rather disarming- even soothing.

Iosefka wondered if it was rude to think that, but… the Hunter was a strange girl, easily-influenced. A presence like this woman’s – _like Eileen’s_ – would do her good. Calm, sly, and self-assured– as if the Crow had worn a wry smile the whole time. Yes, this Crow had almost certainly been a positive influence on her Ophelia, reinforcing positive traits – _cleverness, charisma, humor_ – and hopefully mitigating negative ones– like Ophe’s tendency to blame herself unduly, or trust the untrustworthy, or disregard herself in favor of others.

“Then I am in good company. How is she as of late?”

“Quiet, but well. She’s been by less often to visit, but I suspect that’s as much to do with seeing you as ya were as it is her Hunt and that Maria girl.”

Iosefka closed her eyes – she couldn’t see much of anything anyways, after all. Repeated the words that stuck out to her. “Maria girl?”

“Another girlfriend, seems like.”

That elicited a wince from the Doctor. “And how long did she kick herself over her discovery of polyamory?”

Eileen chuckled again. “Not long. Seems Maria has a way of easin’ the girl through things.”

“Well, that’s step one of fifteen out of the way.”

“Aye. Never a dull moment with Ophelia.”

Iosefka stifled a laugh. “It’s a bit troublesome, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Eileen agreed, “but she’s worth it, our girl.”

 _That_ , Iosefka thought as she drifted off to sleep, _went without saying._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is a play on the fact that Iosefka hadn't directly appeared before.  
> And the title-title is a play on the fact that 'mensis' apparently means 'mind', and, y'know. The way one's mind can so easily be caged.


	2. An Old New Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And this title's a play on the last one, and the fact that Maria's a new flame, but was a new flame before, and-
> 
> Listen, I know the gag is bad, just let me pretend.
> 
> (So, like -- if you mess up a resurrection, do you just kill them and try again?)

Twisted pillars and warped bits of architecture and statuary lurked at the periphery of unaided Human vision, forms intermingling with shadow as if precisely upon the threshold of distinct and indistinct – as if the dank, dark cavern had been painstakingly built to prickle at the mind’s every in-built response, to instill paranoia and fear and anxiety and unease for some horrible, unknown purpose. Shallow, murky water stood several inches deep upon the stone floor, and a natural stone shelf rose a few feet above it, its irregular shape obviating that it had not been worked by the hands of men. A great, calcified spider-like creature laid, petrified, upon the platform, surrounded by sprouts of glowing flora reminiscent of mushrooms or other fungi, with cauliflower-like heads and spindly, skinny stalks, which cast something of an eerie luminescence upon the long-dead thing.

It was upon that creature’s back, among thick, presently-unlit candles, that Maria sat.

Before her were two figures. The first was a girl with uncannily vibrant green eyes, grayish hair, and fair skin, who wore a cloak of jet-black feathers over protective layers of thick cloth and leather which were obviously Hunter’s garb – even before factoring in the belts and baldrics and webgear which criss-crossed her torso and bore all manner of equipment. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop her head, and a familiar sort of leather mask-collar was draped over her shoulder, behind which the haft of a two-handed sword protruded at a slight angle. She was short, compared to Maria, and rather fetching – she was too youthful to be ‘beautiful’, but words like ‘cute’ and ‘pretty’ would suit her well, or perhaps Maria was just a bit of a hopeless woman who could find herself enamored the first time she saw a face speckled with snow-white freckles.

The second figure was humongous, lurking behind the girl, and blurry, more indistinct than the statues which stood at the edge of darkness, Maria’s eyes seemingly content to simply gloss over the obviously inhuman creature. It unnerved her, had a sense of Wrongness about it, but… it also seemed to radiate an aura of peace and calm and compassion. Whatever it was, it either meant no harm or wanted Maria to _think_ that it meant no harm – the nuance of whether or not it was a being capable of wanting or simply a creature which calmed thoughtlessly and without intent wasn’t something Maria was particularly concerned about.

Tears glistened in the short girl’s eyes, and, voice strained with what Maria placed as relief and joy, hauled herself onto the platform, sobbing, “ _Maria_ …!”

Maria felt a distinctive sinking feeling in her gut as the younger woman embraced her-- embraced her like a loved one.

She didn’t need to know what was going on to see the signs and put together that this girl she had no recollection of obviously knew her and cared for her deeply. She awkwardly half-hugged the girl back and cooed in what she hoped was a soothing manner.

…

What the hell was she supposed to do? The girl… she seemed _familiar_ , somehow, but _‘Excuse me, good Hunter, have we met?’_ was obviously not the appropriate way to broach this topic.

Maria didn’t get the chance to broach the topic on her own terms, however, as the Hunter registered that this reunion of hers was more one-sided than she had apparently expected.

She took a step back, out of the hug, and looked up into Maria’s eyes. “… Maria?” Maria watched as less-positive emotions rushed across that pretty face. “Wh-what’s wrong? It’s me, Ophe. Ophelia.”

Gods, but the quaver in her voice _hurt_.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Maria said, “I do not know what is happening, here, but- it is nice to meet you, Ophelia. Were that we could have met under better circumstances.”

“We did.” remarked Ophelia, and there was pain in her voice, the weight of memory straining it, crushing her.

Maria nodded solemnly. “You feel familiar to me, for what it is worth. Perhaps I have memories to be jogged?”

A faint glimmer of hope. “Right.” Ophelia took a deep breath, seemed to use a moment to compose her thoughts. “We drank wine in the Astral Clocktower. Talked about all sorts of things. You… helped me to accept certain things about myself. We made a bed so you wouldn’t sleep in your chair all the time. Had a bout with blunted swords, which I narrowly won. I slew a… terrible foe, and we celebrated. You had a nightmare that I’d murdered someone, once.”

Ophelia was holding things back, but Maria could scarcely blame her. Had they been friends? Been like family?

The girl was… rather Maria’s type. Had Maria made unwelcome advances on someone who looked to her as a friend and confidant? She couldn’t imagine herself doing such a thing, but – the fear was there. Uncertainty. Worry.

“Is there anything you had said to me that would have been especially important to me?”

The tears Ophe had kept from spilling free overcame their restraint and flowed down her cheeks.

She cleared her throat, and tried to emulate the memory of her own voice.

_“_ _I love you, too, Maria. And I’ll free you from this Nightmare, I swear it.”_

“Ah.” Was Maria’s first reaction, the response to coming suddenly and clearly to understand the nature of their relationship – or, rather, the fact that Maria had told this girl she loved her, and the fact that she knew herself well enough to know it was not a platonic statement.

But there was also something there. Something vague, in the back of Maria’s mind.

“… Was there something else you had said or done, Little One?”

The girl flinched at the epithet – presumably because Maria had used it then, too.

Sorry.

“I- yes.” She sniffled.

_“_ _I love you, too, Maria.”_ She said, and pressed a peck of a kiss upon Maria’s chin. _“And I’ll free you from this Nightmare, I swear it.”_

That… _that_ was familiar. Sparked a sense of _deja vu_ in Maria. She had received that promise and that kiss before, she _knew_ it.

She smiled down at the silver-haired girl. “Ah. You did, didn’t you? Free me, as you promised to.”

Ophelia smiled sadly, cupped Maria’s cheek. “I did.”

“I am sure I must have been very proud of you.”

“Mmh.”

An impish grin worked its way onto Maria’s face, she could feel it. “Well, then – tell me everything.”

“… Very well, but if I have to tell you the whole story a third time I’ll be cross.”

Her cheeks were still wet with tears, but her words were wry and light, and hearing them warmed Maria, assured her that she had not broken this poor girl’s heart irrevocably within five minutes of meeting her.

That was always a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria, internally: 'Can I kiss her or did she think of me as a sister or something?'
> 
> (Don't worry, Maria, you can totally smooch her next time.)


	3. Needs Must as the Devil Drives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria feels her situation out. Maybe flirts a little (or a lot).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idiots in love, WOO

“You keep acting as if I was very wise, Ophelia, and I am still not believing you.” Maria said with a laugh. The two had been talking for what seemed like several hours by that point – _‘seemed’ because time is a shallow concept on a night of the Hunt, rather than the more mundane way in which something might seem to ‘drag on for hours’_ – yet Maria hadn’t even begun to tire of it.

The Hunter pouted dramatically, her actions obviously exaggerated for levity’s sake, but her words were still just a bit clumsy, a little scrambled, maybe, and Maria thought that was understandable. “And I keep telling you that you’re really rather– you’re a supportive, understanding partner. Now as well as before.”

“ _Partner_?” Maria arched a platinum blonde eyebrow high. It simply would not do to let something so cute and innocent go unchallenged. Not when further wonders could be extricated with that shyness. “I thought I was your _lover_ , good Hunter.”

Ophelia flushed prettily and said, “Teasing already... it’s like you never left.”

Maria snickered. “Surely things will settle out in due time. Have patience, dove.”

“Wait- ‘dove’?” The girl looked at Maria as if she’d said something strange. “You only started calling me ‘dove’ recently. Well, ‘you’. You know what I mean.”

“I do indeed.” She offered a small smile, nudged the small Hunter with an elbow. “Perhaps – _if only there were_ someone _you could ask!_ – the knowledge that I so easily loved you before has made me more willing to embrace you again, now.”

Maria could see why she had liked this girl. Loved her, even. She was odd and interesting and _sweet_. She wanted to protect her, as foolish as perhaps that was.

And, though she thought it was probably a selfish thing to think, Ophelia’s presence was – for now, at least – doing wonders with regards to keeping her mind off of things.

Time, she understood, had been distorted for her.

The last thing she remembered was the smooth steel crown of a pistol’s muzzle – _her_ pistol’s muzzle – and a careful trigger-press and then she was here. In the future, certainly, though how far she did not know. Did not _want_ to know, perhaps, but she had no means to find out regardless.

The large, blurry form – _Ebrietas, Ophelia said she was called_ – had retreated to a separate portion of the cavern. To give herself and her magical lover space. Apparently the being – _the Great One_ – had told Ophelia ( _Maria did not question that her girlfriend talked to Gods,_ _for_ _she had just been raised from the dead after having had a relationship with this girl while dead, and that sweet Ophelia could understand the warbling songs of Ebrietas seemed mundane by comparison_ ) that she wished to rest, but, whether she understood what the deity(?) had said or not, Maria understood what the deity had ‘said’, so to speak.

She thought Ophelia probably suspected the same, but either had the good sense not to bring it up or trusted her peculiar friend enough to take the excuse at face value.

They discussed all sorts of things. Like how the Altar of Despair ‘turned back time’, and whatever rites and rituals she and Ebrietas had performed were done in order to reform her body in a controlled and predictable place – upon the Altar – and in hopes of her retaining that which she had known and seen within the so-called ‘Hunter’s Nightmare’. There had been a fair bit of arcane jargon explaining various things, but… frankly, it was all rather arcane to Maria.

_Probably how it got the name, really._

What Ophelia had mentioned about the state of Yharnam had been… she suspected the girl behind those green eyes had spared her the majority of the gory details, likely for good reason, but burgeoning curiosity blazed in her, pushed her to ask.

“Tell me, Good Hunter,” she began, because, as the older Maria (she had been _older_ , that version of herself, albeit physically the same age – _because she, too, had pulled the trigger, and had simply ended up in rather more unpleasant company_ – but had also been the ‘previous’ Maria, the one the girl had known and loved and kissed and- was it unreasonable to envy _herself_?) had certainly realized, Ophelia could use every little bit of positive reinforcement she could get, any morsel her unconscious mind could cling to for reinforcement on a Hunt such as hers, but also because Ophelia seemed to suit the _sobriquet_ ‘Good Hunter’ in its every sense, “is Yharnam truly in so terrible a state?”

“It is.” Said Ophelia, glancing sidelong at the larger woman. “If you feel the need to join the Hunt, Maria, I shall neither protest nor attempt to stop you, only…” Maria could tell she was frowning under the brim of that hat of hers. “I would implore you to be cautious. Do not stray far from the Cathedral Ward and Central Yharnam lightly, and do not venture into the Unseen Village or her hypogeal gaol unless you absolutely _must_. No scenario I can envision would require that of you, but I am no seer.” She turned to smirk up at Maria, then. “At least, not yet.”

Maria grinned back down at her and deftly plucked the wide-brimmed hat from her head, setting it gingerly aside. Hoped, a little, in the back of her mind, that Ophelia did not hate her pale skin and delicate, ‘noble’ features. Her boring gray eyes. Her smile that showed her eyeteeth just a little to much.

“Do you doubt my prowess, Ophelia?” She teased, knowing full-well the girl did not.

“If I feared you could not handle a few beasts, I would take you to Oedon Chapel and bid thee stay. No, I only know that you are mortal, and would like it very much if my loved ones were not slain. If need be, you might ask Eileen for help. She was a skilled Hunter, and every tale of her I’ve told you is absolutely true, with the possible exception of any mentions of squawking.”

Maria snorted. Leaned close, draping an arm across the small Hunter’s shoulders. Ophelia smelled of moonlight, her hair the same, but also rain and lumenflowers, undercut by notes of steel and silver, then leather and blood beneath, scents simply caught from what she carried. On the Hunt, Maria knew, she would smell so very strongly of blood and moonlight, those green eyes ablaze between her mask and cap. She would be lovely in a fashion so distinct as to warrant separate classification and appreciation.

“And how would you ensure I did as you bade, my Hunter?” Maria flirted, and didn’t pretend she was doing anything but.

“Alas, I fear I’ve naught to bribe you with but kisses.”

“Ah, but you must know, Little One-” Maria purred, bringing her lips to the Hunter’s ear, “-that kisses alone will not suffice.”

Ophelia’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. “Needs must as the devil drives,” she replied, and Maria kissed her. They kissed one another, and it was warm and sweet and she realized that this girl had set right the crimes of Maria and her comrades, she had killed a godling and ended a curse and all she asked in return was to be loved. Only, she _didn’t_ ask, and she hadn’t asked the Nightmare Maria, and Maria could see in those green eyes that such a thing would never occur to the girl, not without outside influence. Even had the necessary seeds been sewn to grow the idea, Ophelia wouldn’t have asked either her or the older Maria a question like that, and Maria had the distinct impression the Good Hunter would abhor the mere thought of it.

Perhaps this was another indication that those rituals had been at least somewhat effective.

Or maybe one simply has an instinctive understanding that a person who goes out of their way to resurrect you is a very special sort of person indeed.

She ran a thumb over the soft, freckled flesh of Ophelia’s cheek, tracing her cheekbone. Lingering, their faces close, sharing breath. Resting their foreheads together. She knew – perhaps instinctively, perhaps by way of information gleaned from Older Maria – that there could be dark and hurt in this kind Hunter’s eyes, yet, in that moment of closeness, they were light and alive and happy. She knew the way one often ‘knows’ things which they do not necessarily _know_.

Maria wondered – maybe hoped – that this girl made her eyes shine the same way.

Ophelia deserved that feeling, didn’t she? That feeling of suddenly and acutely being aware that your mere presence was capable of making someone’s day, of making their heart soar; that realization that someone truly, deeply loved you, treasured you, _needed_ you.

But Maria knew – the way one often ‘knows’ things – that her eyes were dull, gray things, plain and intimidating and cold. Realizing she was subjecting this lovely young lady to steely eyes, she turned away, only to have Ophelia make a little concerned noise in her throat as their foreheads and noses were separated.

“Maria? Is something wrong?”

“No.” Maria lied, and when she turned back there was pain tinging those green eyes just a hair darker.

It was a pain Maria felt echoed in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN THE NEXT EPISODE: [Situational Irony Intensifies]


	4. The Meeting of Lady, Doctor, and Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We open with Ophelia dropping Maria off at Oedon Chapel, and switch to Maria's perspective to see the Old Hunter's first meeting with Iosefka and Eileen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO GAYS ENTER! ONE GAY LEAVES!  
> The other meets her girlfriend's girlfriend, who may one day be her girlfriend also.

****

Escorting Maria through the Upper Cathedral Ward and down the Church’s Workshop tower had, of course, been simple. Victims of the scourge were cut down with the ease of practiced familiarity and overwhelming strength. Not a hair upon Maria’s head had been harmed, and any wounds Ophelia herself had sustained had been quickly healed through rallying – through letting the blood of the foe splash into one’s wounds in what could be seen as an inefficient parody of blood ministration.

The look on Maria’s face when Ophelia stopped at the elevator to the Chapel and asked the blonde to go on without her… that wasn’t simple.

Beautiful gray eyes, searching her masked, blood-splattered face for answers. For a _reason_.

Ophelia considered unlacing her mask, just so she could kiss the woman. _Smile_ for her. Provide some evidence she was alright. Allay those worries, those fears. She dismissed the idea out of hand, however. Intimacy, humanity – these would serve only to muddy things, to trouble Maria further. To do so for the sake of her own reassurance would be unacceptable.

“I can’t, Maria.”

“This is about dear Iosefka, yes?” Understanding gleamed in those steely orbs of Maria’s. “You fear she will be sleeping still.”

Throat constricting as tears welled in her eyes, the Hunter merely nodded.

“What if she is awake, my Good Hunter?”

The question was innocent, so innocent as to be almost traumatic, and Ophelia, standing upon the stone pathway bridging Oedon Chapel’s heights and the Healing Church Workshop, gazed out upon the damned city of Yharnam. The Blood Moon loomed large and malevolent in the discolored night sky, casting hateful scarlet light upon the unsuspecting world below.

Its baleful glow painted everything in sanguine hues, turning gothic spires into bloodied pikes and flying buttresses into the grasping claws of unfathomable beasts.

“She won’t be,” croaked Ophelia, “and even if she were...”

A gloved hand gestured broadly at the mess the Hunter had allowed to come to pass before returning to the hand-rail she leaned against. “How could I look her in the eye, knowing I have allowed this to befall her home?”

“Do you believe she would hold it against you, Ophelia?”

Maria’s voice was calm and rational, her words and her delightful accent soothing.

Despite that, Ophelia snorted. “Quite the opposite, darling- like you, she is much too kind, and far more forgiving than I deserve.” She shook her head, watched a heavily-mutated Scourge beast claw its way out the front doors of what appeared to be a fairly well-to-do residence.

“And what if she does wake up?”

Ophelia repeated the words, weighing them. Considering them. “If she does.”

“If she does.” Maria reaffirmed.

“If she does?” The Hunter met Maria’s eyes, steady and reassuring. “Tell her I’m sorry– I’m sorry, and I love you both.”

And then she turned away, still dripping with gore, and strode across to the workshop tower, crow’s-feather cape billowing out behind her.

  


* * *

  


The elevator’s thick chains were still rattling as Maria ducked through a slightly-short set of heavily-engraved doors and into a two-part room heavily perfumed with the beast-warding incense – into a relatively plainly-decorated church.

Oedon Chapel looked just as she remembered it. The higher section of the floor to her left, the ground level she stood upon, the alcoves set into the walls, the steps and the guard-rails…

How long ago had it been that she last set foot here?

…

The first person she laid eyes on was an old woman hunched over in a wooden chair, murmuring to herself in gentle madness, her eyes glazed over. She didn’t acknowledge Maria, nor did the muttering man perched in an alcove to the right of the crone. To Maria’s right was a nun, clad in black church robes, who hugged her knees and giggled and sobbed at once.

_No wonder Ophelia had come to find this haven so distressing._

The upper echelon was more promising, Maria observed as she strode up the steps.

Immediately on her right, a sickly blonde woman in a lovely red dress sat in a very nice chair. A little girl with a white ribbon in her straight, brown hair sat in the woman’s lap, and both of them appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Maria identified them as Arianna and the daughter of the first bestial, blood-crazed Hunter Ophelia had encountered- and put down.

To her left, an older-looking woman – not elderly, but at least thirty-five or forty years old – sat against a wall, arms folded across her chest. She wore Hunter’s garb of a sort Maria was only familiar with through Ophelia, including a crow’s-feather cape, and her dark skin was of a shade which marked her as a fellow foreigner. An ‘outsider,’ as Yharnamites tended to say. A wicked-looking siderite short-sword lay beside her, as did a carved wooden mask with empty black eyes and a long beak– this woman was Eileen, Ophelia’s beloved mentor.

Eileen the Crow, former Hunter of Hunters, now retired.

That Hunters of Hunters were even necessary struck a pang of guilt in Maria’s heart. That such a group even existed was a direct result of the Curse upon all Hunters, placed by Kos in response to the actions of Maria and her comrades in that little fishing hamlet so very long ago.

Even so, it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around – that there were so many blood-drunks that special assassins had to step up to the task of hunting them down.

Beside Eileen sat a woman who was obviously Iosefka. Keen hazel eyes, salmon pink hair done up in a high, fluffy ponytail, and the white garments of a properly-educated doctor – she looked up from the leather-bound notebook she was scribbling notes in and examined Maria for a moment, as though uncertain what, precisely, she was meant to do.

Eileen wore a sly smile – Maria liked her already – as the doctor dryly observed, “You must be the other woman, then.” She set her notes aside and stood.

A giggle escaped Maria, then, and she nodded, smirking. “I am indeed. And you are the loveliest doctor here, which means _you_ must be dear Iosefka.”

Iosefka, Maria felt, had a scholarly sort of beauty. Where Ophelia looked as softhearted and cute as she was, Iosefka appeared studious– and compassionate, yes, but… she struck Maria as a woman with a love for books, who probably kept a small library of her own.

Maria took the doctor’s hand and pressed a kiss to the soft, smooth skin of the shorter woman’s knuckles.

“Maria, then, is it?”

She nodded, and Iosefka cast a furtive glance about the room, as if looking for someone.

Which, of course, was _exactly_ what the woman was doing.

“Ophelia escorted me here, but did not wish to come inside.” Maria offered an apologetic smile. “Truthfully, I cannot remember much of the time I shared with her– that which I can is terribly vague. But I know your condition troubled her very deeply. She could not bear to see you that way.”

Eileen chuckled. “She’d come in here and do her business, then cradle you in her arms and cry until she had no more tears to shed. I was honestly startin’ to worry.”

A tired sigh slipped free of Iosefka’s lips, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

“Yes. In the event you awaken -- do let me know if this is happening -- I am to tell you that Ophelia said, _‘I’m sorry, and I love you both.’_ Of course, I am not entirely convinced I am not dreaming-”

Maria’s overt flirtation was cut tragically short when Iosefka punched her in the arm.

“You, Maria, are a _terrible_ flirt.”

“Incorrigible,” agreed the Crow.

The Hunter with the feather in her cap looked between the two women, bringing a hand to her breast in mock hurt. “ _Truly_? I thought myself quite the hand at it.”

Iosefka snorted good-naturedly. “Perhaps, but there’s hardly any need for it now. Come, have a seat. We’ve stories to share, haven’t we?”

Maria obliged her, and the two sat down together upon a simple cot. “We do indeed. I would endeavor to know more of this odd young woman who loved me in death and returned me to life.” She shot a sly wink at Iosefka. “And the lovely doctor who shares her heart with me, if you would allow it.”

Maria thought she’d rather like these women, the Crow and the doctor.

Who knew life could hold such promise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BONUS FOOTAGE:
> 
> It was some time before Maria turned an eye towards where the Chapel Dweller sat, but she lit up at the sight of the fellow. 
> 
> "Winston, is that you?"
> 
> The odd little man's cloak shifted as he turned his long neck to peer blindly in her direction, wringing his spindly hands in nervous excitement.
> 
> "... Lady Maria? Why, it's been ages! I'd 'eard you was-" He trailed off uncomfortably. 
> 
> "I was," Maria offered, "I took my own life."
> 
> "An' someone went an' gave it back to ya? Reckon that'd be the Good Hunter." He grimaced. "I trust you won't do nothin' 'a that sort again? I'm short enough on friends as it is. Can't go losin' another."
> 
> Maria stifled a chuckle. "I shall endeavour to avoid such things in future, my friend."
> 
> "Good. You'll break my 'eart, ya will."


	5. From the Advent Plaza to the Lecture Hall's Uppermost Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia delves into another Nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Name an evil what can't be killed with buckshot, love. Go on, I'll wait."  
> -some cheekier alternate reality Ophe I guess

At the end of the Unseen Village of Yahar’gul, past the broad archway that led into the Advent Plaza, beyond the plain, wooden doors of the unremarkable facade which stood at the top of a wide, grandiose stairway at the plaza’s far end, there was a darkened room.

Like the lecture theaters that hadn’t existed, but had been a staple of Ophelia’s youth, this room was stepped. Tiered, if you prefer. Arranged so that each row of seats was on a platform higher than the one before it, such that each student could see and hear their lesson – or sermon, though the younger Ophelia had found that there was little difference between the two.

This hall, though, wasn’t arranged as an amphitheater. No, it was a rectangular room, chairs packed closely, but not uncomfortably so, along the left and right sides, as well as along the far wall. With four or five tiers of seats for each direction, there were places for dozens and dozens of students.

And each spot was filled.

Occupied by a scholar long-dead, clothing long rotted away, leaving their desiccated corpses indistinct and unidentifiable; their leathery skin pulled taut over their spines and rib-cages.

The apparent lecturer sat in a slightly nicer chair on a half-round platform raised a few stair-steps above the floor, his back to the students of the back row.

A scholar in every seat. Some children, some chained in place. All wearing queer, hexagonal iron cages upon their heads.

Ophelia made a warding gesture whose significance she could not remember, and found that she was grateful that the bastards had at least dried out – the mere thought of a roomful of corpses tainted black with decay, their flesh and organs turned soft, soft as pudding, so soft one could push their hand through-

She shook her head.

_Snap out of it, Noodles._

The Dreamer put a hand on the hilt of her holy blade for reassurance. Took a deep breath. Heeded the words of a comrade no longer remembered and let her heart-rate slow, lull itself back to the familiar tempo of gentle background anxiety.

Surely this was no worse than Ludwig’s corpse pile.

She fought down her revulsion and took a step forward. Pale moonlight – blue, not red, though what the significance of real moonlight’s presence here was, she knew not – shone down upon the central figure. That deceased madman, that damned murderer – surely this man was a ranking member of the School of Mensis, responsible in part for the abduction and genocide of untold multitudes of Yharnamites. For the abduction of poor Adella.

For those so-called ‘Hunters’ of Yahar’gul, kidnappers in ratty black rags, with steel helms and heavy armor beneath, just to ensure that the innocent didn’t harm them – pathetic wretches, insults to legacy of the Hunters each and all. Ophelia had already hunted those contemptible bastards down, introduced them to silvered-steel and righteous fury and the legacy heroes like Ludwig deserved. Each had fallen as a coward does, as a monster does – with a whimper.

Evil, Ophelia knew, was not slain with prayer or donations or good deeds.

Evil was slain with fire and steel. With enchanted greatswords and leaden buckshot.

And Ophelia had found a mould for casting .25 caliber buckshot. The purging of beasts demanded that traditional Hunter’s admixture of quicksilver and blood, but beasts had long ago ceased to be Ophelia’s sole prey, and she found that, somehow, she knew – from experience? – that demons and devils didn’t require specialized munitions, merely effective ones.

She prodded the death-stiffened man, and the world shifted as though torqued suddenly and violently by some great, unseen wrench. The floor fell away from her and she pitched forward, falling into the man, through the man, into the black-

 

* * *

 

The far end of her extraplanar jaunt through Nowhere – through the cosmos-

_No, you don’t understand._

_Through_ the cosmos. We weave through the stars as a needle slips through fabric. Within, without. Neither word truly encompasses what it means to exist within a three-dimensional universe of infinite scope, outside, inside, all around. One sails _upon_ the sea; one sails _through_ the stars.

Ophelia did not sail through the stars, but through the cosmos. Slipped between the curves, into the abyss and through and beyond, amidst the susurrous whispers of gods, distant and so very rare and yet innumerable, overwhelming, coming from every direction and every time.

She passed through Nowhere. Through a hole torn in the universe, through the darkness and the Nothing within, and out the other side. All in a fraction of an instant.

Her boots settled upon hardwood flooring, in a room which was eminently familiar to her, though she had not visited it before.

Because it was just like a handful of other rooms in the Lecture Hall. Square and dark and full of specimens and reagents and tomes and half-completed experiments.

Kin of the College – blobby fellows, ‘Slime Scholars’ – occupied the place, as per usual, light blue and sluglike and vomiting horrible arcane solutions at the Good Hunter. Literal projectile vomit ranked fairly high amongst the revolting things Ophelia had had shot at her, but, though she couldn’t get the word vomit out of her head, the vomitous missiles were of little threat to her, and the frail cosmic Kin were cut down with ease, as per usual.

It hadn’t taken much deductive reasoning to puzzle out that she was on the second floor of the Lecture Hall, which, in a sense, could be said to be ‘all balconies’ – the chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings could be used to illuminate both the first and second floors if the higher of the two was built this way, with walkways only around the perimeter of the main hall.

Even the rowdy giant in the far corner of the place wasn’t of much interest to the girl.

As her flamesprayer rendered corpulent inhuman flesh down to a writhing mass of boiling fat and tissue, flickering flames reflecting nostalgically in the black pools of her distinct, healthy, Human pupils, Ophelia remembered a time when she had been… _bubbly_? No, not quite. More… cheerful, and upbeat. She had been as bright as her eyes, then, but… that was much harder to do, now. Harder to be. It wasn’t as though that part of her was gone, of course – nothing so dramatic as that – merely that she had a harder time letting that aspect of the person called Ophelia shine through, as of late.

Given the horrors she’d been dealing with recently, though? The Hunter could hardly blame herself for that, ingrained guilt complex or no. She let things weigh on her conscience beyond the limits of reason, she knew that, but she wasn’t so irrational as to blame herself for failed corpse-gods that fell from the sky and tried to kill her.

Imperfect or not, she hadn’t committed any genocides lately.

Still, it felt bad knowing she wasn’t… well, fully herself.

Who or what had instilled that guilt in her, though? Schooling, perhaps? If she looked at it from an outsider’s perspective, it seemed rather strikingly like some form of emotional abuse, but she knew – the way one ‘knows’ things – that it wasn’t so simple a matter. Perhaps it was a disorder of some kind, or something that had been purposefully built into her during her creation?

Thinking that she must have been _made_ was still odd.

There were alternative explanations, she was sure, but none that satisfied.

Ophelia had been engineered for purging.

And purge she did, until none troubled her. The place was a gold-mine, a whole wealth of knowledge at her fingertips, and she wasted no time gathering up every book and scrap of notepaper that piqued her interest, ferrying them to an out-of-the-way desk where she could sit and study in peace.

She had spells and secrets to uncover, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we see the Esper in the wild, providing in-character justification for dear Ophelia's ability to toss magical grenades,


	6. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria spends some quality time with a young girl, and realizes she may, in fact, be 'that tall.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maria is good with kids.
> 
> (Is the room beneath the Chapel a study? Or is it... a smolibrary?  
> Think about it.)

A tiny hand tugged at Maria’s pant-leg. “Miss,” said a small, timid voice, “are you a Hunter?”

Oedon Chapel was quiet. Peaceful, most all its residents asleep. The mad by way of carefully-administered sedatives; the sane by exhaustion. Save for the noblewoman, who had been resting as the First Hunters did – in a semi-aware, trance-like state – and the little girl with the lovely white ribbon in her hair, who gazed up at Maria with big, brown eyes.

Maria righted herself, then crouched down low, so that the poor child wouldn’t have to crane her neck quite so much.

... _Am I really that tall?_

“I must admit, I am not certain myself.”

The girl thought about this for a minute or two. “Perhaps we could ask Miss Arianna when she wakes up?” She suggested sweetly.

“Hmm.” Maria considered that, then nodded agreeably, flashing a dazzling smile whose power she herself was completely unaware of. “That is a very good idea, I think.”

She placed a gloved hand atop the child’s head, and the girl brightened, looking up at the noblewoman excitedly. “Would you help me with my lessons, Miss?”

“That depends on what they are, I think, my friend.”

“Language.” The girl bounced a little on her heels, disrupting her dirty-blonde hair. “I’ve trouble with my clauses.”

Meeting the girl’s eyes, Maria nodded seriously. “Language, I can do.”

  


* * *

  


_“_ _The girl was afraid to go home, because the man in the mask was there.”_

Nose wrinkling, the orphan said, “The first part is the independent clause, because it can be a sentence on its own?”

Maria smiled wryly. “Are you asking me or telling me, dear child?”

Across the table, the girl made a face, and the swordswoman stifled a laugh. Even though the two were doing their studying in the Chapel’s Study, Maria knew full-well that she could laugh quite loudly if properly motivated, and she didn’t want to be the one to disturb the much-needed rest of others with the sounds of her own merriment. Closed doors and a narrow stairway could only muffle so much, after all.

“You are correct, Tiny One.”

The girl pouted. “I’m not tiny!” She protested, puffing out her cheeks and otherwise being very small and very cute.

“You must be,” Maria retorted, “Ophelia is already the Little One, which means you have to be an even smaller one.”

“So you _do_ know Miss Ophelia!” She seemed rather excited about this most shocking of revelations – Maria didn’t understand, but made sure she didn’t quip back or anything of the sort.

 _There is no harm in letting a little girl have her fun, and_ only _harm in keeping her from it._

With as much melodramatic flair as she could muster, Maria gasped,“How could you uncover my secret so easily?”

The giggle she got in response let Maria know she was at least doing _something_ right.

“You’re very beautiful, Miss,” the child slyly half-answered – until, in a bit of youthful excitement, she undermined her coy response by further explaining, “so Miss Ophelia must like you a lot!”

She wasn’t _wrong_.

Maria bit down on her hand and tried not to succumb to titters.

“I just _knew_ you were friends!”

Once she was certain she wouldn’t descend into hysterics, Maria cleared her throat. Opened her mouth to speak, only to find she didn’t know what to say.

How was she supposed to respond to that? Was it inappropriate to tell the girl that she and Ophelia were lovers?

The child’s face fell. “You- you _are_ friends, aren’t you? Miss-” she paused, seemingly realizing she hadn’t asked Maria’s name.

“Maria. And you?”

“Viola.”

Maria offered a small smile. “After your mother?”

“Yes.”

“It is a lovely name.” The noblewoman paused. Hesitated, even. “And, to answer your question, little Viola, Ophelia and I are… _close_?” Another thoughtful pause. “Yes, I think this is a good way to put it. We are close.”

Viola lit up like a crucified Yharnam beast on a night of the Hunt. “Are you married?!”

Maria snorted. “I should certainly hope not, or else she and I will be having a talk about marrying people without their permission!”

Again, Viola scrunched her little face up in thought. “Are you _going_ to marry her, Miss Maria?”

“In a manner of speaking, I have not even known her for an entire night just yet. It is a little early to be thinking of such things.”

The girl scrutinized her. At length, she said, voice quiet, “Don’t hurt her.”

“I would sooner die.” Maria promised, and hoped, just a little, that the girl wouldn’t fully understand just how sincere she was.

“You won’t,” said the child, firmly, and Maria somehow _knew_ – the way one often ‘knows’ things – that it was true.

“Then I suppose I shall never hurt her.”

  


* * *

  


Maria’s ears perked up at the sound of soft footfalls coming down the stairs. Viola had her nose buried in a book – Maria had found that the girl was a _voracious_ reader – and Maria…

Well, in that moment, her fingers were finding their way around the grip of her pistol, her whole body tensing-

-and relaxing as Arianna, the lovely lady in the crimson dress, emerged, a faint smile upon her pale-red lips.

“Hello, dears,” she said sweetly, her amber eyes settling on Viola twice– double-checking the girl, who had ventured downstairs with someone she hadn’t met yet, was alright, or so Maria expected.

Maria was glad for that, frankly, that suspicion. It wasn’t unkind or anything of the sort, just motherly concern, proof that Arianna cared for this child.

She smiled at the newcomer, setting her empty hands on the table, palms flat against it, just to show the flaxen-haired woman that not only was she not hiding a pistol (she wore hers quite openly, thank you), but that she understood.

“You must be Arianna, yes? Ophelia has told me much of you--”

_She told me you were pregnant with the child of a Great One, and that she had given you medicine to kill it. It warms my heart to see that it appears to be working._

“--and of the support you have given her.” She inclined her head in appreciation, tipping her hat with a wink when the woman stifled a giggle. “She is grateful for it, and so am I.” She stood, then, and approached Arianna, noting with some satisfaction the way the shorter woman – but _she wasn’t as small as Ophelia, thank every God, she was tall and proud, her back unbowed by the cruelties of Yharnam and its people_ – looked her up and down.

“And _you’re_ Maria, aren’t you, dear?” Arianna asked, and wrapped her arms around Maria, hugging not low, but high, non-sexual, _appreciative_. “You helped Ophe when she was in a terrible place. For that, you have my thanks.” She let Maria go, took a half-step back, and smiled cheekily. “It’s good to see you alive.”

Bobbing her head in thanks, Maria replied, “And it is good to see _you_ well. The Good Hunter holds you in high regard.”

Viola was trying to pretend she wasn’t watching the adults speak. Maria found her secretive glances very cute indeed, and was almost certain Arianna had noticed, too.

“She is a dear friend of mine,” the courtesan replied, “and better to me than I deserve, I fear.”

Arianna was only a handful of inches shorter than Maria, and it was easy for the Old Hunter with the grayish-blonde hair to press a kiss to her forehead. “The only thing wrong with you, Arianna – and dear Ophelia has a similar problem – is that you have let yourself be convinced that there is something wrong with you. That you do not deserve the world.” She looked the woman in the eyes. “I do not know why, or how, but you have been hurt. Made to think yourself a wretched thing. Yet, were I to ask little Viola, she would tell me that you have been kind to her, that you let her sit in your lap while she reads, helping her with words she does not know, sometimes reading to her or helping with her lessons. She might even say she feels safe around you, safe enough to sleep in your lap and your arms, were she not feeling shy.”

Maria smirked and looked openly in the girl’s direction. “But you are feeling shy today, are you not, child?”

The child in question flushed pink and let out a tiny squeak, visibly uncertain whether to bury her face in her book or add her two cents. Arianna slapped Maria’s upper arm. “Don’t tease her, you scoundrel.”

That sent the rakish Hunter snickering, but Arianna was smiling a little, too, only fighting it briefly.

“Um.” Mumbled Viola, her voice as small as she was, and Maria caught her eye, nodding slightly, hoping to encourage the girl. “M-Miss Arianna?”

Worry creeping into her features and voice at the child’s stammering, Arianna quickly asked, “What is it, dear?”

“You really are _very_ kind! I love you just as much as mum and dad!” She spoke more confidently, then, and, after a very short moment, hastily added, “-And granddad!”

Arianna looked rather as if she was on the verge of tears, and Maria, taking that as her cue to be anywhere else, slipped silently up the stairs, disappearing into the Chapel proper.

Whatever sort of moment those two were fit to have, she was unwilling to intrude upon it.

It wasn’t her ken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can all agree that 'You're very pretty, so Miss Ophelia must like you a lot!' is the most roasted Ophe's ever been, right?  
> Just plain GOTTEM material, frankly.
> 
> Also, her just straight-up ignoring Maria's wise-crack about marrying people without permission? Golden.  
> Viola is straight savage.


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ophelia comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to get off my bum and go kill Micolash.  
> But I'm siiiiick~

Feeling one’s jaw drop, Ophelia observed, was an odd sensation.

As was the detachment she, in that moment, felt. The distance. It was funny, in a sense, though she knew better than to laugh. Knew far better. Far, far better.

If Iosefka stood before her, at the top of the steps in the center of Oedon Chapel, then… surely she remembered nothing. Or, worse, remembered everything, remembered that Ophelia, the so-called ‘Good Hunter,’ had failed to arrive in time. Perhaps she was a specter of regret, or a twin sister the woman hadn’t thought to mention.

“… Have you died?” Asked Ophelia, more quietly than perhaps she meant to.

“Not just yet,” replied Iosefka, “Thanks in no small part to you, I hear.”

Something clawed at the Hunter’s chest, at her _heart_. Anguish? Joy?

In that moment, the Dreamer wasn’t sure of the difference. Even as her voice, weak, barely a croak, escaped her lips, her intonation echoed hope and pain intertwined, interwoven, ‘til there was no difference left for her to discern.

“… _Angel_?”

“It’s me, Noodles,” said Iosefka, and suddenly Ophelia wasn’t so sure.

She hadn’t exactly been certain before, but the possibility that this wasn’t Iosefka – or a close relative of hers – at all hadn’t occurred. Hadn’t sunk in the way Ophelia’s stomach felt it might.

Her silvered greatsword rasped free of its scabbard.

“My sisters called me that,” she said distantly, “before I had a name.” The holy sword stayed at her side. “… What do you know of Mensis?”

“I’ve called you Noodles ever since you muttered it in your sleep, Ophe.” The doctor stepped slowly, carefully, down the stairs, presenting her open palms to the Hunter. “You whined, _‘Don’t call me Noodles’_ , and rolled over, nearly off the bed.” She grimaced. “… Has it really been that long?”

“I’ve killed… two? Four. No, _five_. Five gods, since then. Two True Great Ones and three failures, though two were groups of failures.” The Dreamer blinked. “No- that’s since… you were still awake when I slew Amygdala, but then… that rest was before the Blood Moon, was it not?”

“It was. I believe Amygdala was the fiend you’d slain when you returned to me, that evening.” The doctor, of course, used ‘evening’ the way anyone instinctively wishes to on a Night of the Hunt, because when days pass per minute, telling time becomes… odd.

“Then- Rom, the Failures, the Emissary, the Orphan, and the One-Who-Was-Many. Five gods.” Ophelia let the tip of her sword fall to the floor, where it scarred the Chapel’s tiling. The stone gave way, and wisely so – hallowed ground though it may have been, it knew to yield to enchanted steel. After all- what was the blessing of a Great One to a sword that had slain a half-dozen? Perhaps a half-score by night’s end.

Night’s end. Funny way to think of morning, that – of dawn. But natural, really, when one considers the perspective of a being shrouded in a long, Yharnam night.

“… This night has been long,” Ophelia said at length. It hadn’t been true the first time Iosefka had said it, through the Clinic door – not that Ophe had been aware of, anyways – but… well, the night had been long. In that moment, however, as they stood in the Chapel, it was so true as to turn an expression of compassionate commiseration into what could have been taken as a joke by way of hyperbolic understatement.

She didn’t consciously do it, really, but her guiding moonlight’s blessed blade slipped back securely into its scabbard, settling there nicely.

“But morning _always_ comes,” agreed Iosefka, and she cupped the Hunter’s cheeks, hooking her thumbs over the woman’s mask and quickly rolling it down. As their eyes met, Ophelia could almost have sworn that the doctor had a heavenly, pale-blue glow about her.

It turned out Iosefka was still a very good kisser.

Ophelia lifted the woman by her waist and spun her around, beaming. Her heart soared as Iosefka laughed and giggled.

Yharnam was no place for heroes. Wasn’t the sort of place that needed saving, even.

The time for that had long since passed, and Beast-Hunters were just cursed exterminators.

Yet, in that moment, Ophelia felt like a hero.

Whether or not she’d be broken of that remained to be seen.

“You’ve gone from paranoia to joy so quickly I scarcely know what to think,” Iosefka remarked when her feet found the floor once more, “I can’t tell whether you’ve gone soft on me, or hard.”

“It’s still possible you’re here to cut my throat, Angel,” the Hunter said, smiling against the doctor’s neck, “but-- gods, I’m just glad to have you back.”

Outside, a beast – one of the large lycanthropes – snarled, its hooked claws scratching on pavement in response to the dance-like footfalls of a skilled Hunter at work as what Ophelia suspected was a sabre cut into its flesh, sending blood _pitter-pattering_ down like a soothing rain.

“It’s good to be back.” Said Iosefka, and the beast outside yelped, prompting a presumably-Maria-related change in subject. “So... is it just tall women in general, or only _fair-haired_ taller women?”

Ophelia’s cheeks warmed, so she kept her face buried in her lover’s shoulder. “Isn’t that like asking Maria if she only dates shorter women? She’s probably only ever _met_ shorter women.”

“And you’ve only ever met taller ones, then?”

“I think you’ve met every woman I know, Iosefka.”

The doctor blinked her pretty hazel eyes and looked Ophelia in the face. “… And we _have_ all been rather taller than you, haven’t we? Hm.”

“A shorter woman is easier to clothe and armor,” answered Ophelia, with all the simple, robotic ease of a well-oiled toy soldier, “cheaper to feed, a bit more efficient to transport, and makes for a slightly smaller target.”

After regarding the Hunter oddly for a moment, Iosefka shook her head sadly. “You really did come from somewhere awful, didn’t you, Ophe?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, Ophelia replied, “I haven’t the foggiest idea, my love.”

“Love?” The doctor pulled away, regarded her strangely. “I really must have been gone for a long time indeed.”

A laugh escaped the Hunter. “Oh, _bite_ me.”

The feeling of teeth scraping her neck informed her that either Iosefka wasn’t familiar with the turn-of-phrase, or had simply chosen to interpret it as she pleased, and Ophelia gasped as teeth sunk in, her sharp intake of breath seemingly inspiring the good doctor to repeat her performance.

“Iosefka-” she whimpered, but she was already being led somewhere, by the neck first, then by the hand.

She had said something about privacy, Iosefka had, but Ophelia had been in a bit of a haze, and just trying to un-roll her mask one-handed took up most of her attention – it really was a remarkably onerous task! – as the taller woman (who was of average height, and wasn’t all that much taller than Ophelia, frankly speaking) led her to that private place.

They’d crossed through the graveyard where Ophelia had killed Gascoigne when the Hunter’s head cleared in the cool night air and she started noticing – smelling and seeing, mostly – that all the beasts and huntsmen and trolls along the way were freshly-slaughtered. Each bore wounds which were distinctly incised – clean cuts, as opposed to ragged-edged lacerations like Ophelia’s saw-sword might leave – and there were enough corpses for the Hunter’s keen eye to pick out signs of about four or five implements. That meant Maria and her _Rakuyo’s_ saber and dagger, plus Eileen and her Blade of Mercy, both in its short-sword form and its split daggers form. Five distinct cutting implements, plus the occasional throwing knife– typical of Eileen, really.

Ophelia knew full well that, just as she did, Eileen carried fully twenty throwing knives at any given time. Fortune favors the prepared, after all.

Their path was a familiar one.

Across the bridge from Oedon Tomb, up the elevator, through the broad overlook (was it a terrace, maybe?) patrolled by two trolls, up the short stairways and landings to Gilbert’s house, then down the long ladder (Iosefka went first, of course, because Ophelia wore trousers and she did not) and then it was just a stone’s throw to the Clinic. _Iosefka’s_ Clinic.

Home, in a sense. In a number of ways, really.

When they stepped inside, the most notable thing was the utter lack of the sharp tang of blood – everything was clean and lamp-lit, all the way to Iosefka’s bedchamber.

The salmon-haired doctor turned and smiled warmly as Ophelia shut the door behind them. “Welcome home, Ophe.” Iosefka’s eyes were ever-so-slightly wet, and she choked up, just a little, as she said, “I’m so glad you’ve made your way back home again. To- well, to _me_.”

This struck a chord in dear Ophelia, and Iosefka was practically tossed onto the bed with time only to yelp in surprise before the Hunter was above her, kissing her, bringing a gloved hand to her cheek-

And Ophelia pulled back as she realized she was still swathed in her Hunting garb, still bristling with weapons and web-gear and pouches and leather.

Iosefka moved to help her out of the belts and buckles and _weight_ of her gear, never needing to stop and examine something or assess how best to remove it, and Ophelia wondered if Eileen or Maria – perhaps both – had given the delightful white-clad woman a few pointers, perhaps even practice.

 _Mask, hat, gloves, boots, cloak, Wiggles, Legs, coat, overshirt, trousers, socks, blouse-_ Iosefka was already unclothed and watching bemusedly as the Hunter sheepishly eased her bloomers off. As their eyes met, Ophelia remembered what Iosefka had said, and very nearly pounced upon the woman.

 

* * *

 

The door creaked open a hair, and, once satisfied she wasn’t interrupting anything, Maria stepped in, quiet as a mouse at midnight.

“How went your Hunt?” Asked Iosefka, and the Old Hunter bowed her head gratefully, the plume in her cap bobbing as if in agreement with the sentiment.

That Maria was thankful – perhaps even _pleasantly surprised_? – to be asked how her day had gone told Iosefka something about the way Hunters were treated, she thought, and she found herself not particularly thrilled by the picture it painted. How quintessentially _Yharnam_ , though, to treat like trash those who risked life and limb in the dead of night to deal with the consequences of the city’s incaution and excess. It made her stomach turn, though the pleasant company quickly soothed that.

“It went beautifully, Doctor.” Said Maria, her accent as mellifluous as ever, her gray eyes twinkling with mischief, “And _yours_?”

Iosefka spared a glance to sweet Ophelia, curled up against her side and peacefully asleep, with her snowflake freckles and her cute nose and the faint birthmark they all pretended not to notice.

“I suppose it was quite alright.” She said, in the best _neutral-and-a-smidge-disappointed-but-very-polite-about-the-whole-thing-despite-being-a-bit-put-out-about-it_ voice she could muster after having made love with a woman possessed of possibly-superhuman stamina, “Went rather well, really.”

The two grinned at one another like idiots sharing a joke of understatement while trying not to wake up their mutual girlfriend, which, when you consider the situation, was rather an appropriate sort of grin for them to share, really.

With a quiet, sleep-muffled ‘ _Mmph_ ’ sort of sound, the silver-haired Hunter rolled a little more inwards towards Iosefka’s body, the shift in her position altering the fall of the lamplight upon her form, bringing a nasty scar near her right shoulderblade into contrast with her pale skin and making visible the familiar cluster of white lines etched diagonally into her upper arm, where she’d bloody her sword in order to enchant it, wreathing it in wicked blue lightning.

Neither Iosefka nor Maria had become accustomed to those scars in particular, though the older Maria had – but the older Maria had seen a great deal more than either of them were likely to ever know. Horrible things, she’d seen, the stuff of Nightmares true.

The doctor shook her head sadly. “How could anyone in their right mind put Ophelia in a position to bear scars like these?”

“Because she is strong of will. Enough to withstand the mightiest of blows and come back stronger. She fell sixteen times before she laid the Orphan low.” Maria smirked. “Yet we call Ophelia god-slayer and victor, and the Orphan slain.”

“She’s certainly resolute, yes, but...” Iosefka grimaced and brushed hair from her lover’s face. “She should not have to be.”

Maria appeared pensive for a moment, her roguish expression turning thoughtful. “I think she is like I was, once. Thriving, here. In the nightmare of blood and beasts, she has found purpose- and family. The violence does not bother her. She ends curses, shatters shackles, and will break the gloom over Yharnam if she possibly can.”

“I just wish she didn’t have to.”

“Good Doctor,” Maria cooed, “Ophelia may not have been given the choice, but she would do these things regardless. She is…” Her gaze fell for a moment, but soon gray eyes met Iosefka’s again. “She reminds me of Ludwig. The Holy Blade, they called him, and he deserved the name. He was a true hero, a light in the dark of night. But... he turned, as the clerics often do.”

Sorrow touched upon the Old Hunter’s delicate features, and her eyes briefly lost focus to gaze into the haze of memory which could so often shroud a troubled mind.

At length, she returned, however, and said, “Ophelia will not turn. Even her wrath finds its roots in righteousness, as though she was molded to be incorruptible.”

A brief chuckle escaped Iosefka. “That certainly seems to be the prevailing theory, doesn’t it?”

“It does. She told me as much, I think – in the Nightmare.” Maria offered a lopsided smile that the Doctor couldn’t help but find charming.

“You’re finding your memories, then?” She asked, and Maria nodded, prompting her to continue, “Good. I’ll be thrilled to hear how you allayed her worries so easily.”

“Ah, it was not so difficult as you make it out to be. I remember wine and flirting, mostly.”

“Sounds like my sort of Nightmare,” Iosefka noted dryly, “was there also a great research hall?”

She was somewhat taken aback when Maria regarded her strangely, but the towering woman seemed as if she had a story to tell, and Iosefka indicated the chair at her writing-desk.

Maria took it obligingly, removing her hat, and Iosefka settled in for a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ophe hornt'd've


	8. Paleblood, and Shades of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Good Hunter pays a return visit to the Hunter's Nightmare, seeking the counsel of her forebear.  
> While there, she decides to indulge in a brief dalliance with nostalgia and stop by the Astral Clocktower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven't fought Micolash, but I was willing to mess around in-game for a bit today, and figured I'd fight him as soon as I finished this chapter and did the opening sentence of the next, and now I'm two and a third pages into Chapter 10, which is called, "Yes, 10- the Previous Follows", because Chapter 9 will be 'chapter 10' and will be Eileen PoV as Maria gets WOKE (I think). Chapter 9 being chronologically *before* Chapter 10, but it's my story and I can tell it how I want! Nerd!
> 
> Point is, be it some combination of sickness and depression letting up or just sunshine and rainbows and the will of the muses, I am once again a words machine. Apparently, anyways. Knock on wood an' all that.

The stench of blood and death filled the stone vault which had once been all that contained the bestial Holy Blade, Ludwig the Accursed. To the heightened senses of a Beast-Hunter (though, technically speaking, Ophelia supposed she was a Hunter of Hunters), the bouquet was all the more stifling, all the more unsettling, all the more repulsive.

All the more inviting.

Djura had once called Ophelia ‘half-cut with blood’. As she knelt in the standing, ankle-deep pool of Human vitality, she wondered if it had been double-entendre, an accusation that she’d been blood-drunk, or an observation of the fact that her blood had been cut with _the_ blood, healing blood – whatever one wished to call it. The fact that the Hunter wasn’t blood-drunk was obvious, frankly, but Djura was tad nutty himself, and she wouldn’t have been shocked if he had really, sincerely thought that his written warning was a suitable deterrent to sane Hunters.

The slaughter perpetuated by Ludwig had long since ceased, but blood still flowed endlessly from the ‘Underground Corpse Pile’, and the depth of the ichor filling the chamber never changed, never fluctuated even a little.

The severed head of Ludwig slept peacefully before the young woman, and she found herself loathe to disturb him.

Hadn’t he earned his rest?

She let him be as long as she could.

He was a hero true, but the girl knew to temper her veneration of the saintly figure. She was the one stepping forth into the future, but she stood upon the shoulders of giants – she saw further not because she was of greater stature or sharper eyesight, but because of the work of her forebears. She was no greater than they, but the inverse, too, was true – each hero of old was able to be as great as they had been because their forebears had paved the way in turn.

Eventually, however, she leaned forward and placed a hand on the side of the fallen hero’s great, horse-like head.

Gently, she spoke. “Awaken, Master Ludwig. I would seek your counsel.”

His grotesque eye fluttered open, and he softly replied, “Good Hunter of the Church. I am glad to see you well. Ask what you will, only- indulge me. Have you seen it? The moonlight?”

Ophelia offered a slight smile, nodded slowly. “I have, sir.”

“Does it offer you guidance, dear girl? Has it led you astray?”

“At times,” the Hunter admitted, “but it has yet to steer me aught but true. It may not always be the wisest course of action, but… I suppose I value the input, if that makes sense?”

“You are wise, Good Hunter. I fear many an apprentice, given an artefact such as that, would heed its urgings without consideration, believing its holiness to preclude folly.” He chuckled fondly. “You will make another Hunter very happy, Good Hunter, if you are willing to indulge the severed head of an old man so.”

Ophelia shrugged. “Even if there _are_ other Hunters out there, they’re probably all men.”

She tried not to say that disdainfully – she certainly didn’t mean to – but she was all-too-aware it could easily come across that way.

“Ahh, just like our dear Lady Maria,” he mused, an air of amusement in his sonorous voice, “are you familiar, Good Hunter of the Church?”

The Hunter made no attempt to hide her sly smile. “Quite intimately, I’d say, but I’m sure she and I will find plenty more opportunities for… _familiarization_.”

Ludwig, the Holy Blade himself, guffawed. Whether one of the noises he made was an ‘ _Attagirl_!’ or simply a peculiar-sounding cough, we may never know.

At length, he calmed, and said, “Still, young Hunter, if you speak true, then I’m obligated to remind you – a Hunter is _never_ alone.”

“… I suppose you’re right.”

“Indeed,” he chuckled, “and there are few Hunters as true as sweet Maria, my Good Lady of the Church – if she is at your back, I know not what reason you might find to fear.”

Ophelia blinked. “Did- did you just call _me_ ‘Lady’?”

“I have known Maria since she was little, Good Hunter.”

Warmth crept into the silver-haired Hunter’s cheeks. “We’re not _married_ , Master Ludwig!”

“Give her time,” he chuckled, “Maria will know the right moment.”

Ophelia reddened even further. “Enough of your teasing. Tell me, do you know of a ‘nameless moon presence’, beckoned by, and I quote, ‘Laurence and his associates’?”

Ludwig’s inhuman brow furrowed. “What is it you quote, Good Hunter?”

“A note I found, in the Lecture Hall. It reads-”

‘ _The nameless moon presence beckoned by Laurence and his associates. Paleblood.’_

“… Paleblood.”

“Paleblood.” Ophelia agreed. “I came to Yharnam seeking Paleblood, I think. I was left a note that said, _‘Seek Paleblood to transcend the Hunt.’_ And, inYahar’gul, there was one which read, _‘Behold! A Paleblood sky!’_ In my studies, too, I’ve seen things called out as being ‘Paleblood’. A Paleblood Moon, for example. But Paleblood is also a… a _thing_. A noun.”

“Paleblood, Good Hunter, is a… loan-word. A term from another tongue. In that language, it is written in brackets. Our equivalent would be quotation marks, I think.”

“… In other words, it’s not a literal thing, but a… colloquialism, or parlance. The difference between telling someone to ‘follow the path’ and telling them to follow “the path”.”

“Yes. And it is not a proper noun – that language does not possess capitalization.”

“And, as it does not refer to literal _pale blood_ , but things which are “paleblood”, it is an abstraction of a sort, yes? A term to relate things to the Great Ones, or the eldritch. The sky is “paleblood”. The nameless moon presence is “paleblood.” Not because that is its name, but because the term describes it.”

Ophelia sighed, exasperated. “I feel like a moron. It’s practically interchangeable with “spooky”. “Paleblood” is a piece of… of _Scholars’ Cant_.”

“Mere jargon.” Agreed Ludwig.

She took a moment to move on, mentally and emotionally, before actually moving on. “What do you make of this ‘moon presence’? What else could it be but another Great One?”

The severed head hummed thoughtfully. “I can think of little else it might be.”

“Then I’ll probably be killing it. Hopefully it hosts the Dream, rather than some other Nightmare.”

Ludwig’s eyelid began drooping sleepily, and Ophelia laughed through her nose. “Right. I’ll leave you to your rest, Master Ludwig. Thank you for your help.”

She rose and bowed to the woeful creature, and he yawned, “May the good blood guide your way.”

“And yours as well.”

With that, she turned and headed into the dungeon beneath the Research Hall. Perhaps it was silly, but the Astral Clocktower had been a home to her, a place of rest and respite and love, and she wished to pay it a visit since she was already so close.

 

* * *

 

After unlocking the great double-doors with her key and heaving one open enough to let herself in, Ophelia stepped into the semi-darkness of the Astral Clocktower, breathing in the smell of lumenflowers – as an afterthought, she turned and flopped down into the patch of starflowers surrounding the great Lumenwood, rolling around until she was satisfied her hair would smell properly of Maria’s precious flowers.

Thus covered in petals, she approached the door, stopping only to soothe Wiggles, who chirped in irritation at the Hunter’s rather inconsiderate dive. A few fingertip pets to the pale blue slug’s head, though, and the phantasm calmed.

The Dreamer stepped inside once more, pausing to remove her hat – her mask was rolled up in a coat pocket, because it hadn’t seemed polite to beg a master’s advice without showing her face – and take a deep breath.

“Honey,” she quipped into the darkness, “I’m home.”

“Welcome home, dove.” The dark purred in reply.

…

_What?_

“Maria?”

“Know you any other, Little One?” Her voice came from the thick stack of blankets and bedding that had served as a makeshift bed for the two of them in the past, and Ophelia’s feet carried her there without thought – she only realized it when she heard the tread of her boots upon the floorboards.

Maria lay there, in bed, her silky, grayish hair untied and splayed behind her, the covers pulled up over her shoulder. Her porcelain skin and fine, delicate features – her nose and mouth, her very-neat eyebrows – as lovely as Ophelia remembered. The dark bags beneath her eyes had… softened? Abated? They were no longer so dark as they had once been, and the knowledge she likely (almost _certainly_ , but- baby steps) had something to do with that was a balm to her insecurities.

Ophelia was certain, however, that she would have remembered Maria having been partially transparent at some point in their relationship.

… _Some_ _ **much earlier**_ _point, smartass._

The long-limbed Old Hunter seemed almost half-insubstantial, as though partially faded away- which, Ophelia quickly realized, was precisely the case.

“You’re waking up.” The Hunter concluded, and Maria nodded feebly.

“It is an odd sensation, Ophe, dearest.” She trailed off briefly. “It is silly, I think, but it feels somehow lonely.” The blonde blinked, gray eyes focusing on Ophelia’s face even as the Hunter began disarming herself once again. “… _Lonely somehow_?”

“I think you can put the ‘somehow’ just about anywhere, really, but-” She shrugged out of her coat and offered the fading woman a winning smile. “For what it’s worth, I think your phrasing works rather nicely with your cadence and accent, darling.”

“That is very sweet of you to say, but… dare I ask why you are undressing?”

“I’ll stay with you until you wake,” said Ophelia, “holding you is the least I can do.”

When she was down to her smallclothes, the Hunter slipped beneath the covers and took the lithe form of her lover into her arms.

“I love you,” she breathed.

“And I you, Little Hunter.” Maria replied, and then laughed through her nose. “But stop acting as if I am going to die. It makes me nervous.”

Ophelia laughed as well, grinning sheepishly. “Right, sorry. Just a bit unnerving, is all.”

“Please do not feel as though you _must_ do this, my Good Hunter. This must be a horrid thing to watch, the stuff of nightmares, and you are under no obligation to subject yourself to it for my sake.”

 

 

> _“_ _Unless...” Simon had said, “you’ve something of an interest in Nightmares?”_
> 
> _Ophelia, of course, had replied, “Nightmares are fascinating.”_

 

The moon-scented Hunter pushed the thought – the _memory_ – away. She’d learned plenty of Nightmares since then. Of their horrors and comforts, their peculiarities and mundanities. Knew she’d soon be delving into another, too, or at least strongly suspected as much.

She held the taller woman just a bit closer. “No nightmare could keep me from cuddling you until you disappear from my arms, Maria.”

Maria nodded her assent, and then neither of them found much of anything to say. There wasn’t much _to_ say, really; the closeness, the sound of their breathing- that was all either of them needed.

Warmth and love.

For hours they laid together, Maria growing fainter and fainter in form with each passing moment, until so diluted was her presence that both knew she would soon wake.

Old phrases danced through Ophelia’s head.

 

 

> _“Whatever happens, you may think it all a mere bad dream.”_

 

 

> _“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world.”_

 

None of them were right. Instead, she placed a kiss to her love’s pasty – _ghostly,_ even _,_ heheh – forehead, right between perfect, platinum-blonde brows. She stayed like that, lips lingering, and whispered, “I’ll see you soon, lovesome.”

Maria squeezed her, instinctive fear bubbling to the surface, and then the covers flattened out as Ophelia’s arms were emptied.

Rolling onto her back, the Hunter brought a forearm to her face, only to move it again to wipe away tears with the back of her hand. She let her eyes slip closed, then, and slept alone in a bed meant for sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray~!
> 
> I've started on a Dark Souls 3 fic as well, though how that'll actually go I'm not quite certain. 
> 
> Also, because I really ought to shill for myself more, I have a patreon, which you may support or not at your leisure. You can find that at <https://www.patreon.com/EsperQM>


	9. Chapter 10: Yes, 10- The Previous Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mensis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't actually fought Micolash in Ophe's world as of yet. Been set on a Dark Souls kick as of late.  
> Also, y'know, sickness and depression and all that. I've been working still, just not as much on Ophe's escapades.

The initial expedition into the Nightmare of Mensis was a great, bloody blur of frenzy, beasts, and screaming faces shrouded in silence.

It had gone something like this.

Stepped out of a cavern of petrified, screaming faces. Took a casual stroll up a bit of hill, making a mental note to remember to repress those memories as soon as she could (she hadn’t). At the top of the first stretch of hill, near a dead, gray tree, slew a silverbeast whose veterinarian had neglected to prescribe medication for worm prevention, and whose dentist had been perfectly alright with the fact that its mouth was a bit askew (only ninety degrees off horizontal, no big deal, _really_ ). Slew the worms that the veterinarian ought to have dealt with some time ago (a really rather lengthy span of time, judging by the size of those hateful maggots – which, for the record, was a description so canny Ophelia had decided that would be their name from now on). Found discomfort in the fact that the two parasites had been more difficult to slay than the fire-breathing silverbeast.

Turned to the left, shot a scuttling bone fella with a fireball from her eye. Headed up the next incline, picking up the spoils from the li’l quadrupedal monstrosity as she went. Took a right turn. More face-stone. Structures protruding from the ground, irregular in shape, like shrubs transplanted from the dreams of someone who was very damaged indeed. Given this was a Nightmare, it was entirely possible that was literally the case, save for the transplanting – except, given all the ritual nonsense, it was possible something like that had happened.

Saw a great structure of stone. A castle of sorts. And an eerie, orange light in the middle of a bridge-like structure spanning two more proper buildings, likely to prevent one from having to descend a flight of stairs, walk across a yard, and ascend another flight of stairs when one could simply walk across on a suspended bridge. A good idea, really.

A lamp was nearby, behind the cover of a shrub made of howling fucking Human faces, gods, _why_.

The lamp was a boon, because it would take Ophelia to her safe haven, her Hunter’s Dream. Also because that orange glow, leering down upon her, made the Insight in her blood _swell,_ burgeoning and growing until it erupted from her flesh in spires of crystallized blood, each tearing free of her veins and reminded her what pain felt like.

_**RIP.** _ _“Hello, Ophelia! This is what pain feels like!”_

_Thank you, little blood-crystal man! I had forgotten over the course of the past three seconds._

_**RIP!** _ _“No problem, Ophelia!_ _Isn’t this fun?!”_

_It sure is, little friend. If I drink this medicine and sedate myself, will you stop?_

_**RIP!** _ _“Haha! Of course not, silly!”_

_Great! I think I’m going to run for my life, then!_

_**RIP. RIP. RIP. RIP. RIP-** _

And run she did. Past more silverbeasts, past two giants who were probably very politely offering her those boulders as a snack, the silly fellows, rather than trying to turn her into a fine, creamy, Hunter pâté, which would surely not taste very strongly of liver at all. An admirable goal that was, too, mind, but, as she rushed to a pair of double-doors so big that they must have been built by an utter moron, she was sure that the stones tossed in her direction and bursting upon the ground at her heels were larger than her not out of malice, but worry, because Ophelia had lost a bit of weight on the Hunt, and she’d already been quite thin! Mother had thought so, as had the woman she had loved, whom she had alternately called ‘ _champion_ ’ (sometimes ‘ _my champion_ ’) and ‘ _cuddles_ ’. Of course, her mother had been quite the curvaceous woman, as shapely as she was purple (and she was _extremely_ purple!), and Ophe’s so-called champion had been humongous and strong, such that she could kiss the not-yet-a-Hunter-then Hunter while kneeling, or carry a grown woman under each arm, if not two or three.

Befriended some very friendly giant spiders, and their even friendlier, house-sized momma spider, who had so many eyes that she could see beyond the veil, which is a very enlightened sort of way to say she could strike at Ophelia through walls.

A man upon a bridge had lashed out at Ophelia with a Kirkhammer – the silver sword which could lock into a humongous hammer’s-head and be used to smash people verily. ‘Verily’ because that hammer was a hunk of steel larger in volume than twice Ophelia’s gods-damn’d torso, and if that wouldn’t make a Hunter pâté, what the hell would?

Parried the dumb bastard – a Choir Intelligencer called Edgar – shoved her leather-wrapped hand into his thoracic cavity. Tore it free, sending him sprawling. Ran him through when he stood, then, when he failed to be decent enough to die, let Moonlight show her true power and clove the stupid bastard from left hip (Ophelia’s left, his right, but nobody cares what his perspective was, not anymore) to right shoulder, sending the two portions of his body heavily to the ground.

In another universe, the Intelligencer had used the greatsword equivalent, one of the misleadingly-named “Ludwig’s Holy Blades”, but Moonlight rejected such concepts and spurned such imitators, and such was the True Holy Blade’s might that the other holy blades were forever to be rendered in the lower-case, never to be held as proper nouns again – only the Holy Blades, the disciples of Ludwig, and the true Holy Blade would have that honor. Next to that, distorting a Nightmare such that no Hunter bearing one of those mockeries would appear before the blade and her wielder was child’s play. The outcome of the encounter was identical regardless: Moonlight humming contentedly in the hands of her wielder, bathed in spy’s-blood, her blade practically glowing with open affection even in its semi-dormant, ‘claymore’ state.

So palpable was the greatsword’s satisfaction that even dear Ophelia’s beloved Phantasms stirred from their long-sleep, concerned and battle-ready in equal measure (and, to a lesser extent, confused and irritated, but their worries and their purpose were more pressing than such petty things).

Happy little tin men roamed about inside the building on the other side of the bridge, as well as some very mean women (who Ophelia gave Moonlight’s greetings to), and the architecture further proved that whoever had designed the place was an utter buffoon, because someone had thought it a good idea to put unsupported floor above the sodding _abyss_.

It was at this point in her thought-gathering that Ophelia realized she’d utterly failed to make an itemized list, her thoughts apparently too scrambled to keep her format consistent.

She had found a shortcut, an elevator down (the structure, according to the tombstone in the Hunter’s Dream, was called “Mergo’s Loft”, and the particular Dream-connected lantern which the elevator let off near was labeled, ‘ _Mergo’s Loft: Base’_.

After her break in the Dream, spent idly chatting with the Doll while doing various errands, the Hunter returned, taking the man-sized birdcage elevator up and actually registering for the first time the presence of… _birdogs_.

That’s what she settled on calling them. Fat, Yharnam carrion crows – big as turkeys, even in the waking world – only their heads… their heads were those of hounds. Hounds of that particular breed of dog which seemed to be most popular in Yharnam. A blond, canine head on a black-feathered corvid body.

Part bird, part dog.

Hence: Birdog. Pronounced ‘burr-dog’, of course.

She played with the idea of trying to switch it around for the dog-bodied, bird-headed creatures, but wouldn’t calling both creatures birdogs be more fun?

Besides, she wasn’t sure about ‘dogbird’. Bit of a disappointing name, really.

Ooh, but what about ‘Godrib’?

It was also rather disappointing, but- well, it was _leagues_ more unique than dogbird, but… dogbird still felt like it worked better. She’d save godrib for some sort of humongous bone spire creature.

She found her enemy on the far side of a bridge of cast-iron grating, held aloft by chains securing it to some mechanism in the ceiling far above. A pair of wooden mannequins assembled themselves as she crossed, but she cut them down with ease, Moonlight ending them like string-cut puppets – rather appropriate, really.

Beyond them was a threshold leading into a library of sorts, and within it strolled a man.

He wore the garb of a student, and a tall iron cage upon his head.

A cage to contain the mind and focus it like an antenna. The damn miserable fools had thought they needed to _transmit_ their consciousnesses to access higher planes – Dreams and Nightmares – yet didn’t shield their eyes from the Eldritch Truth. The Choir, with their blindfold masks, had at least had the good sense to filter their view, but, then again, these Mensis scholars seemed to have betrayed the Church outright – for why else would they have kidnapped poor Adella, an earnest nun of the Healing Church?

The Church had been a farce and a failure, but it seemed to Ophelia as if they had at least _tried_.

These Mensis bastards had damned Yharnam with their beckoning of the Blood Moon, committed genocide to make a failed Amalgam-God, and betrayed both their allies and their species. It made something in the Hunter _burn,_ set the core of her being ablaze with anger and hatred.

Her heartbeat drummed in her veins, the throbbing of her pulse setting a warlike tempo.

“Ah, Kos… or, some say, Kosm… do you hear our prayers?” He sounded almost _bemused;_ it made bile rise in Ophelia’s throat.

“ _No_ ,” he added, rapt, “we shall not abandon the dream. No-one can catch us! No-one can stop us-”

The earth-shattering bark of a blunderbuss did rather a stand-up job of cutting the man short, in more ways than one.

A fistful of quarter-inch leaden buckshot slammed into the cage-headed madman from his right, hitting him side-on in a dozen places, shredding cloth and flesh alike and rendering a portion of his thigh-bone into powder, splattering the inside of his left leg with blood and meat and fine fragments of bone.

A howl, like that of a wounded animal, escaped him, and Ophelia cast the fired scattergun aside.

“ _HERETIC_!” She roared, and surged forth before Moonlight could urge her to. “ _TRAITOR_! _MURDERER_!”

The silver-bladed claymore ignited with a turquoise light from within, its blade broadening as Ophelia and the holy sword’s combined wills channeled the abyssal cosmos into and through it, imbuing it with the righteous indignation of whatever unimaginable being blessed it. The Hunter raised the weapon’s hilt high, blade angled down, poised to end her dash towards the dastard afore her with a merciless lunge, and Moonlight _thrummed_ in accord, eager to stain the earth with the blood of a traitor to all her original master had worked to build, the blood of a monster who had destroyed all that her current master might have saved, had she only arrived earlier.

The man – Micolash, though Ophelia knew not his name – raised a hand, clutching a Phantasm. A light blue slug, a familiar of Ebrietas. Stroking it with the pad of his thumb, he grinned madly, triumphantly, but only for a moment: only ‘til it struck him that his Augur of Ebrietas had called forth no burst of tentacles.

For what Great One would allow her power to be bent against a beloved friend?

He screamed, then, and the moon-scented Hunter of beasts planted her foot and thrust her blessed greatsword forward, a vortex of arcane energies swirling ‘round its broad blade, stable only until they met his torso, whereupon the churning maelstrom of magic destabilized quite explosively. As the sword penetrated his chest, a burst of blue-green light was discharged into his thoracic cavity, and rather a lot of his innards found themselves becoming outards without much warning – which you’d think some sort of organ official ought to have given, really, but which, it seemed, none had done. A shame to be sure; the man’s ribcage did little more to keep his insides inside than it did to keep enchanted greatswords out, which is to say: ‘ _not a whole lot, thanks._ ’

Speaking frankly, the Hunter had once more been coated head-to-toe in gore, her beloved sword dyed red, her eyes left blazing, bright green, beneath the wide brim of her cap, which dripped with crimson.

The sword was rested on her shoulder, then, as it so often had been before, and she called upon a magic she had learned in her most recent studies, transmuting two shots’ worth of quicksilver into arcane power to conjure a ball of lavender flame in the palm of her left hand.

Ophelia was rarely overtly flowery with the names she gave things, Moonlight having been about as fanciful as she got, but this spell, she had called ‘Grenade’, and she found it rather pleasingly laconic, really. It was certainly apt.

She took a few steps back from the open-chested maniac, spat upon his corpse, the taste of his blood on her lips, and tossed the magical bomb underhand, managing to land it quite nicely in the cavity she’d made in the man’s chest cavity.

It burst on impact, purple flame expanding in a somewhat-gentle (as explosions go) fireball, which consumed the man hungrily, greedily, devouring his broken body and shredded robes with aplomb, leaving only the stupid cage he wore upon his head behind.

He was screaming even then, as his body turned to ash, but the Hunter had been hearing the cries of a baby – of Mergo herself, she thought – since the Blood Moon had risen. The cries of a man forcefully excised from a Nightmare after his death came as anything but a shock.

At the thought that he’d “wake up” dead, Ophelia couldn’t help but let out a brief chuckle.

  


Did that fellow legitimately not know that literally nobody calls Kos ‘Kosm’?

Pitiful, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to any of you who've been eagerly awaiting this, I can be both remarkably rapid-fire at some points and rather ponderous at other times.  
> I do have a DS3 fic I'll be posting soon, though I'd like to point out that my knowledge of Dark Souls as a whole is far less... devoted and/or zealous than the sheer adoration I lavish upon Bloodborne. Probably because they've a Lucerne hammer that you can't USE THE PRIMARY HAMMER'S-HEAD OF AND I JUST WANT TO TURN IT ROUND AND USE IT RIGHT, AND WHY MUST YOU HURT ME LIKE THIS FROMSOFT?  
> IT'S BEEN THREE GAMES AND YOU STILL CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT A BARDICHE IS CALLED (it's not SCYTHE or GLAIVE, for the record, but BARDICHE).
> 
> They also keep calling what is effectively a bastard sword a 'longsword' and lacking real longswords in general, which stings at my heart.


	10. Chapter 9: It Follows Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Crow, a Doctor, and the dictionary entry for 'sword lesb- I mean, and an Old Hunter walk into a room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kept ya waiting, huh?

The Blade of Mercy was a wicked, vicious little weapon. A siderite short-sword – or two – twisted and hooked and keen as a razor, fit to rend flesh, spill blood, and slash souls to ribbons. It was the sort of arm which had a definitively _wrong_ end, and the Crow took some measure of pride in that. Crows, after all, are clever creatures, and it seemed only fitting that the Hunter of Hunters carry a weapon as sharp as her wits.

Swathed in shadow as much as her crow’s-feather cloak, Eileen stalked through Central Yharnam, the hellish red moonlight casting familiar streets into doubt and suffusing the place with a pall of paranoia and foreboding which set one on-edge in a way every Hunter was all too familiar with. It also happened, rather counter-intuitively, to draw attention to, rather than distract from, the stench of beast-blood and smoke which scented the air.

Paradoxically, the self-same darkness which provided her refuge had much the same problem as the moon’s eerie illumination, casting the world into doubt, facts once steadfast and immutable now seeming… not quite so set in stone as perhaps stonework ought to be. Indeed, nowhere but within the darkness did relationships seem so eager to shift and obscure – or perhaps that was just her mind playing tricks on her. Anxiety and paranoia are constant companions on a night of the Hunt, after all.

What were a few permanent idiosyncrasies and traumas over a long life, really, compared to meeting death in the jaws of some hound that once called itself a man?

Eileen would take the paranoia. The frayed nerves and irrational fears – only they weren’t irrational, because it was a night of the Hunt, and near everyone was genuinely out to cannibalize her or worse – she could deal with those. Cope, maybe.

As long as she ignored the way her boots and cloak swished up a coating of dust on the cobbled streets, didn’t let herself reel at the implications of it, she’d be alright.

The way Maria had gone stock-still out of nowhere was a bit more concerning than the truth of a dead city’s death.

“Are you alright, girl?”

With a full-body shudder, the towering noblewoman seemed to return to life, one hand straying to her saber on reflex – the Crow certainly noted that with some approval – her steely gaze turning with her head to settle on Eileen.

The flash of recognition and softening of facial expression thereafter was immediate.

“… Yes,” Maria replied, “perhaps even ‘never better,’ but I am thinking-” A pause, then, as the woman collected herself. “I _think_ we should have a discussion with dear Ophelia about all this… _magic_.” She made a vague hand gesture which Eileen took to be somewhat wizard-like.

Eileen chuckled in spite of herself. “Gone too far, ‘as she?”

“I- no, I do not think so.”

When it became clear the tall Hunter wasn’t going to elaborate, Eileen fixed her with an expectant look. Before, it would simply have been a cocked head and the blank, carved face of her mask – she had become so used to emoting without facial expressions that it almost surprised her that she hadn’t forgotten how to make them somehow. Not quite, but almost. The Human mind is a clever thing, and the Crow knew that better than most; was it so strange, really, that she readjusted easily, when she hadn’t always worn the mask? No, Eileen thought not.

The blonde settled steely eyes on the former Hunter of Hunters. Steely they were, yes, but there was no harshness to them. No hardness, either – that, Eileen knew, was something a person had to be taught. Rather, they were thoughtful.

“When I first awoke, I did not remember her. Did not remember...” Maria swallowed, her gaze dipping a little, and shook her head to herself. She found the word she was looking for in short order, however, and finished, “... _us_.”

“ _Ah_. Remembered, have you?”

“I have.” Maria nodded sharply. “I did not wake up all at once, and not fully, not until just a moment ago.”

“ _Magic_ ,” Eileen swore, as though the word were a curse.

“Magic,” the other agreed.

“Well, is there anythin’ urgent we ought to act on?”

“No,” said Maria, “but I know she will be hurting, now, and resting. Not- I do not _know_ this, but-”

“But ya _know_ it?”

“As one often ‘knows’ things they do not truly _know_ , yes.”

There was quiet between them, for a moment.

“Poor girl,” Eileen breathed.

“Indeed.”

A pause, then, as both of them, independent of one another, took a second to examine their surroundings.

A habit of old Hunters, most like, be they _Old Hunters_ or the equally-uncommon lowercase variety. The Hunters of old – of Old, if one prefers, or ‘of yore’ – were, as the Lady Maria could attest, _trained_ to be paranoid. By contrast, less _historical_ generations of Hunters were… well. For the progeny, the training of their forebears was supplanted by something a businessman would find a much fluffier and cleverer-sounding name for, but which would most aptly be called a selection process.

‘Selection’ as in, ‘natural selection’. As in, ‘selection pressures’ and the term as famous as it is misunderstood: ‘survival of the fittest’.

A ‘fit’ Hunter is physically fit, yes, but nobody expects an unathletic Hunter to last long, and the unathletic tend not to try their hand (though there are some rather remarkable exceptions to both those points). What makes a Hunter fit to Hunt is psychological. Mental and emotional.

Old Hunters were _trained_ to be paranoid; Hunters who live long enough to be thought of as ‘old’ have been _selected_ for paranoia, learned or otherwise.

Once satisfied that the only beasts stalking them were corpses and shadows and tricks played by the mind, Maria turned back to her elder – whose elder she, rather paradoxically, also was (and in more ways than one, no less!).

“Have we more to do, good Hunter?” Asked Maria, who, noting a breeze had picked up, sniffed at the air, her nostrils flaring in a manner which fell somewhere between ‘dainty’ and ‘predatory’.

“… I do not smell anything upwind.” She added, pointing a long, gloved finger to the East.

“And there’s nothin’ skulking about that I can hear,” agreed Eileen, “but,” she continued, glancing after the finger, in the direction of the Great Bridge, “it’s good you said that. Means we don’t have any Cleric Beasts to worry about.”

The Crow trusted that the younger woman’s preternatural sense of smell would have picked up on the stench of a beast that big with ease.

“I know it is a good thing, but… I cannot help but be a little disappointed.”

Eileen snorted good-naturedly, and, perhaps, with a hint more understanding than she was willing to admit- whether to herself or otherwise. “Yeah, well, it was your girlfriend cleared the last of ‘em out.”

“A terrible shame,” remarked Maria with a grin, “truly.”

  


## * * *

  


“The other day- or.” Iosekfa sighed into her wine. “You know what I mean.”

“We do, Doctor.” Maria agreed.

Eileen merely nodded. She reckoned she knew better than just about anybody.

“Ophelia told me that- I was teasing her for being short, and she just told me about the logistical benefits of being slightly shorter than the average woman. As if she were explaining why she’d been _manufactured_ that way.”

“Grown?” Provided Maria, and Iosefka bobbed her head.

“Yes. As if the entire motivation for her existence had been to make a perfect little soldier girl. As though she’d been born for _precisely_ that reason, and no other.”

A frown crossed the Crow’s lined face.

“Well,” said the former Hunter of Hunters evenly, “perhaps she was.”

“Whether or not it is the truth,” Maria said, glass poised at her lips, “she genuinely believes it is so.” She drank, then. “If a person can be resurrected, perhaps one can be made as well?”

“It does sound a bit easier, doesn’t it?” Eileen mused. “People being made is- well, there’s not a particularly high bar for entry, is there?” She chuckled to herself and swirled her drink.

Iosefka thought for a moment. Took a deep breath. “… You don’t think the Church would have done such a thing, do you?”

The silence was deafening.

“God’s blood,” the Doctor cursed, “I _supplied_ them. The upper echelons of the Church bought and used _my_ blood. My own formula. They couldn’t get enough of the stuff-” the color seemed to drain from Iosefka’s face. “ _They couldn’t get enough of the stuff._ ”

Maria grimaced. “Surely you are not thinking that the blood you produce was involved in… making Ophelia?”

“It’s fucked-up enough to be a possibility,” said the Crow, her cape of jet-black feathers rustling slightly as she shrugged her shoulders.

Silence, again, then – there was simply nothing more any of them knew to say.

And it was impossible for them to figure out the truth of the Good Hunter’s origin. Practically-speaking, that is. It wasn’t an eldritch sort of secret- no knowledge a man’s mind simply couldn’t absorb (or withstand, as the case may be). Nothing beyond the realm of Human understanding, beyond mortal ken. Rather, the truth was something simple, stupid, mildly-related at best, and, most significantly, borne of mundane horrors from a place very different to Yharnam. Let none say that Yharnamites, and Hunters especially, are not well-accustomed to horrors long since migrated from the realm of the eldritch to the world of the mundane; instead, posit that it is possible that other places have horrors of similar sorts, which are mundane to them, but which a Yharnamite, unfamiliar and out of their element, would balk at.

The trio were, quite simply, trying to puzzle out a problem for which they had very few pieces, and in which the majority of the pieces were information and knowledge they simply couldn’t plausibly have access to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The state of Arkansas said 'thanks esper', so I feel pretty alright about being a bit less productive the past couple months.  
> Reckon things're calming down, now - and you're damn right I knocked on wood - and this chapter was already mostly-written. I apologize for the delay, but things were dire enough at one point that I got a stress-migraine that lasted for a couple days. Just from being the excessively-supportive Internet Friend.   
> Like, it's been bad enough that 'literally cancer' is just... it barely registers. 
> 
> I've been on one of my Bloodborne- well, it's more like I migrate back to Bloodborne at the beginning of the year or something, really? And now it's, like- not-the-beginning-anymore.
> 
> Summer isn't very Yharnam-like!  
> So, I dunno, don't expect rapid-fire updates like before, a mood'll have to take me. (Nobody expects rapid-fire updates after months of absence lmao)


End file.
